The Day Before Read online

  I took the long way, which made no sense, unless you knew that I was walking past Archie’s block, hoping to get a glimpse of him, and talk about tomorrow night. The street was hushed, rows of houses still dark, waiting quietly for the sun to rise in full. The only window that was lit up was Archie’s, actually, which was kind of crazy for how early in the morning it was. I assumed that meant he was awake. But even after waiting a few minutes, feeling like a stalker—oh, it’s just Jughead Jones, skulking away in the shadows like always, just like the freak that he is—there was no sign of movement up there. I had a clear view of his bed and he wasn’t on it.

  I sighed and fished my phone out of my pocket. You up? I texted, feeling like a creep on a booty call instead of just a regular (if mildly freaky, skulking) guy checking in with a friend. I watched the window intently, but there was nothing. And no message appeared on my screen, not even those torturous little bubbles that tell you, at bare minimum, that there’s someone on the other end at least thinking about what to say to you. So after a few minutes—more than I’d really care to admit, to be honest—I shrugged, put my phone away, and kept on walking, across town to Pop’s.

  I had no idea where Archie would be at this hour. I’d say he was with his dad, on-site early for the day’s work. That would have been the easy way to rationalize his absence. But it would require pretending I hadn’t noticed that Mr. Andrews’s truck was still in their driveway. Meaning Mr. Andrews wasn’t at work. And if Mr. Andrews wasn’t at work, Archie wasn’t there, either. Even I couldn’t head-canon that cognitive dissonance.

  So, where the hell was Archie, anyway?

  By the time I got to Pop’s, the sun had risen and I was sticky from the heat. It was still early enough that the parking lot was empty … but not completely deserted, like I would have expected. Sartre said, “Hell is other people,” and you didn’t have to spend much time with me to know that I emphatically agreed.

  (I mean, given that motto, you probably wouldn’t get to spend much time with me, anyway. And you wouldn’t want to if you could.)

  Still nothing from Archie. It wouldn’t have been weird, given how early it was, except that I knew he wasn’t at home, which meant he had to be awake. Just more fodder for the enigma that Archie Andrews had become.

  The last time I even saw him in person was at Pop’s, actually. A week ago to the day. It was, as they say, a dark and stormy night, and I was huddled in a booth, alone, trying to write. I’ve been doing more and more of that lately. I have no idea if my writing is any good—probably not, who are we kidding?—but I kind of don’t care. When I’m writing, I can tune the world out, and at the same time, process things. It’s the best of all possible worlds, for me.

  Of course, I realize that “it was a dark and stormy night” is maybe the most cliché way for a writer to set the stage for his story, but, you know—write your truth and all that. So it was dark and stormy out that night. I can’t help the way it was outside.

  Pop teased me for spending so much time alone, in a booth, hunched over my clunky old laptop—you’d think he’d be used to it by now—but he was giving me extra grief that night, telling me if I spent any more time holed up with my writing (even if I was technically out in public), I’d turn into a character from a horror movie, like the guy from The Shining or worse.

  I told him, “Guys like that don’t live in Riverdale.” I believed it then. Though, soon enough, I’d learn differently.

  It was such a mess outside that, for hours, it was just Pop and me in the diner. A few people stopped in for takeout orders, but it was pretty clear Pop was keeping the place open just so I’d have somewhere to be. He’s a good guy, and I didn’t want to wear out my welcome. I was starting to think about packing up and heading out—wondering if I was going to go back to the trailer, where Mom and Jellybean’s absence lingered like a stain that bleach couldn’t completely kill, or where else I could possibly go—when the overhead bell chimed and someone walked in.

  I heard Pop say it—“Archie! Look what the cat dragged in! What are you doing out in this mess?”—before I could look up and see who it was.

  “Jughead.” Archie’s hair was clumped to his forehead with rain, and a little puddle was forming at his feet. He didn’t look like something the cat dragged in; he looked like something that had been dragged through hell, and the rain was only part of it. There was a distracted look in his eyes. No, worse than distracted. Maybe even haunted.

  “Hey,” I said, not sure how to react to him. After a second, watching raindrops gather at his fingertips and slide toward the floor, I gestured. “You wanna sit?”

  He looked hesitant, which was definitely a twist of the knife. There was a time when I wouldn’t have had to ask, and he wouldn’t have thought twice. And it wasn’t so long ago.

  One summer can change everything, I guess.

  I shrugged like I didn’t care and tried to make myself believe it. He sat down. “Hey.”

  “Long time no see,” I said, since apparently I was only thinking in clichés that night. “What’ve you been up to?”

  “Working for my dad, you know. Pouring concrete.” He grimaced. “It’s not exactly my dream job, but Dad needs the help. Anyway.”

  “Anyway,” I agreed. My dad worked for Mr. Andrews; Archie didn’t have to tell me how grueling the job was.

  “And … you’re still writing,” he went on, nodding at the laptop in front of me.

  “Trying. It’s not exactly National Book Award material. Who knows if anyone will ever want to read this stuff.”

  His face went softer, like he was thinking of something far away. “Come on. Of course they will. You were always the best at making up stories. Remember all those campouts we had in the tree house? Your ghost stories were always the scariest. I had to pretend I wasn’t terrified. Half the time I wanted to run back into the house and hide under my bed with Vegas.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I remember. And you sucked at pretending …”

  I could read you like a book then, Arch, I thought. Still can. Construction didn’t explain why we’d drifted, why he was never around. And it didn’t explain the sad, distracted look on his face.

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, looking a little eager, but also shy. “What if I told you … I’d been doing some writing, too?” He glanced down at the table, like this was the most embarrassing thing he could possibly have revealed to me.

  “No way.” He didn’t have to be embarrassed, but it was still a surprise. Football jock Archie writing? Unexpected was an understatement. “Like a novel or something?”

  “Uh, more like poetry,” he said, turning a little bit red.

  “Poetry? You?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. More like, maybe … song lyrics?” Now he looked completely mortified. He waved his hand. “Forget it. Anyway.” His little moment of vulnerability was over. “What are you doing for the Fourth?”

  “Independence Day at the Twilight on the third, as tradition dictates. But we’re closed on the Fourth, so I have the day off.”

  “Right, of course. Nice.” He ran a hand through his hair, thoughtful.

  I have no idea what possessed me to say what I did. I’d been thinking about it for weeks—hell, it was on my mind when I woke up this morning. But things with Archie felt too broken. I was going to let it go. And then I changed my mind.

  Maybe it was that wistful look on his face. Maybe it was the talk about the tree house, about how far back he and I go. “Remember when we used to go down to Centerville every year to watch the fireworks?”

  “Good times.”

  “Why don’t we do it again this year? Take the bus down? A blast from the past.”

  I had a little flash of nerves, like it’d be a punch in the stomach if he said no. But his eyes brightened. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a plan! Come by my house at four?”

  “You got it,” I said, and for a second it felt like everything between us was exactly the same as it’d always been.

&nbs
p; It was sickening, how much I wanted that to be true. By the time I realized where Archie and I really stood, exactly how precarious our old, familiar friendship had become … well, by then it was too late to be anything but over it.

  * * *

  SWEETWATER RIVER FISHING REPORT FOR JULY 4

  Water flow: 711 CFS

  Visibility: 36 inches

  Water temperature at midday: 51°F

  Water condition: Clear

  Best time of day to fish: Late mornings to early evenings

  Best stretch: Stretch beyond Striker’s Cove

  Best access point: Park at base of campground entrance, 3.4 mi. hike down.

  Fish species: Trout

  Fishing season: April 1 through November 30

  Recommended fly fishing tippet: 4X Tippet

  Best fly fishing rod: 9' 5 Weight Fly Rod

  Best floating fly line: WF Trout Fly Line

  Best sinking fly line: Class V Sink Tip Fly Line

  From the office of the Riverdale Mayor and the Town Parks & Recreation Department, have a great holiday and BE SAFE!

  * * *

  VERONICA

  “The early bird gets the worm, m’hija,” Daddykins always says. But honestly—what’s so appealing about that? Um, worms? I’d just as soon sleep in.

  So you can imagine how irate I was to find Mother looming over me like some kind of incredibly beautiful, perfectly coiffed ogre, having snapped up the window shade of my cabin, shaking my shoulders gently and tapping a sensible Valentino flat against the floor. “Ronnie, we’re leaving,” she said, an impatient edge creeping into her tone. “Soon. You know your father’s on a schedule. Katie, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

  I glanced at my Cartier watch—a little trinket from Daddy, of course. It was barely 7 a.m. Simply uncivilized.

  “Unless, Katie”—ugh, my mouth felt dry and cottony, my head pounding from last night’s fun—“unless you want to come with? Last chance to change your mind. Are you really going to skip the party of the summer?”

  Gingerly, squinting against the sunlight, I rolled to one side and propped myself up on an elbow. I arched an eyebrow at my best friend, who’d slept, like so many summer nights before, in the extra bed in my cabin after the previous night’s festivities had gone on longer than anticipated. Katie stayed over so often she kept her own tub of La Mer in every Lodge bathroom.

  Katie smiled at me, flashing blindingly white teeth courtesy of the finest orthodontia the Upper East Side had to offer.

  “But, Veronica,” she purred, teasing, “I am going to be at the party of the summer. Kelly Klein’s annual East Hampton Fourth of July party is legendary. Last year she had an American flag donut wall. And supposedly Rihanna’s going to be there.”

  I snorted. “Rihanna? Please. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll spot a wayward Kardashian. You can’t throw a Louboutin on the East End without hitting one. And if I’d known you were all about the themed eats, I could have custom ordered you red, white, and blue macarons from Ladurée. You know Claude gave his personal cell to our chef.”

  “Don’t be silly, Veronica—you know our menu has been set for months.” That was Mother’s interjection, a smile in her brown eyes giving her away. Her mouth was still a firm line, though.

  “Katie, dear, you know we’d love to have you. But if you’re staying in the Hamptons, it’s time to start saying your good-byes. The Captain wants to leave in thirty minutes. At Mr. Lodge’s request.”

  We all know that Mr. Lodge’s “requests” are anything but.

  I groaned. “Mother, that’s barely enough time for a double-shot cappuccino—which we both desperately need.”

  Katie nodded at this and batted puppy-dog eyes. “That and an industrial-sized dose of aspirin,” she said, rubbing her temples.

  Mother ignored Katie’s dramatics, folding her arms across her chest. “I’ll send Marta down with coffee and Advil. And I can probably get your father to forty-five minutes. But no promises, so”—she gave a little waving “hurry up” gesture—“get to it.”

  “Ask him for an hour. Then he’ll give you—us—our forty-five.” I grinned.

  Say what you will about Daddy—and there’s plenty to say—but he does love a good negotiation. Even more than negotiating? Daddy loves a loophole. So much so that he actually named his yacht the SS Loophole. And like any other loophole, this boat was great at getting us exactly where we wanted to be.

  Katie and I got dressed quickly, Katie shimmying out of a borrowed pair of pajamas and back into the Stella McCartney sundress she’d been wearing to last night’s hang.

  “I smell like a bonfire,” she said, shaking her tanned arms through the ruffled off-the-shoulder sleeves.

  “Girl, if you smell like last night, you know it was a good night,” I said. At least she came by it honestly; Luke’s impromptu Georgica Pond clambake was epic. Like, blow your curfew, forget all about whoever your summer crush has been until tonight, and slap another coat of lip gloss on epic.

  We both laughed. Katie’s been my partner in crime since the first day of kindergarten at Spence. Her mom’s a little bit psycho—nice, but psycho—and even back then wouldn’t let Katie go anywhere near a molecule of gluten. Whereas my mother sent me to school with a Magnolia cupcake in a plastic container, along with a gourmet PB&J from Blue Ribbon Bakery, may it rest in peace. Poor Katie looked so mournful at the sight of those delicacies that I gave her half of everything in my lunch bag … And sharing does not come easily to me, so you know it was kismet.

  We’ve been inseparable ever since. Save for my family’s annual Fourth of July cocktails at our penthouse in the Dakota. Katie’s been crushing on Luke Chastain’s best friend, the improbably named Mac—an Australian transplant with killer abs and a delicious accent—for the last three years. And Luke and Mac spend the Fourth in the Hamptons, silly boys, which means Katie does, too.

  It’s okay. It just means more for moi. And there’s always texting and FaceTime to keep up-to-date on anything urgent. So while most people were crammed onto jitneys, trains, or the interminable parking lot that is the LIE, the SS Loophole was speeding away from Sag Harbor port back to New York City.

  I didn’t blame Katie for wanting to stay out east—Mac did have those abs, after all—but you couldn’t have paid me to join her. Kardashians and donut walls are all well and good, but everyone knows no one does a bash like the Lodges do. Our annual Fourth of July party was no exception. We’d been hosting it for as long as I can remember. Even as a preschooler, I understood the extra level of prestige that went along with the effort of coming home from your tony beach house just for the night, having scored an invite to one of the most exclusive events of the season. Being on the Lodges’ list was a status symbol on par with an invite to Warhol’s Factory, once upon a time. Tomorrow night I’d be clinking glasses with Du Ponts, Rockefellers, Vanderbilts … and we’d be the most important name in the room.

  I know what you’re thinking: I’m a spoiled girl living a charmed life.

  You’re 100 percent correct. And I make no apologies.

  Daddy works insanely hard to provide us with this lifestyle, and if he wants to lavish the spoils of his work on his doting daughter and devoted wife, why not?

  And if my life is good, then summer in New York is the ne plus ultra. It’s dreadfully hot, so steamy you can practically see the lines of heat shimmering off the sidewalk in waves. That’s where East Hampton escapes come in. Daddy designed our eight-bedroom, shingle-style mansion—“Lodgehampton,” as locals know it—from the ground up, with no detail forgotten. I have my own suite in the south wing overlooking the back garden and heated saltwater pool. Beyond that, it’s a short wooden path to our private beach access. The house has central AC, but I usually sleep with the windows open just to hear the ocean waves crash. Who needs a white noise machine when you have the real thing?

  Most summers, Katie and I would throw a few sundresses into a bag the second that school let out and d
ecamp for Lodgehampton until Labor Day. It was easy enough to get back to the city with the boat, or if Daddy was using that, a helicopter charter. But this summer, I’d been going back and forth much more—and loving every second of it. It was the best of both worlds.

  Daddy doesn’t work as much in the summer, which is divine. We get to have leisurely family meals together and Le Cirque on Fridays. At home, in our prewar classic six, Marta always has a table or a high ball cart prepared just so. And this summer, I’d at long last joined the masses of typical American teens in a manner wholly unexpected:

  This summer, I had a job.

  Mind you, I was working at Vogue. So maybe not completely typical teen stuff. Technically, I was a fashion intern, but after my first week on staff, I’d been scooped up to work as personal assistant to Grace Coddington.

  (I know!)

  I guess that woman really does recognize style when she sees it.

  The job was tailor-made for me; Grace and I were so alike, I could anticipate her needs before she did. (She starts her day with a matcha green tea latte, no sugar, at 9:30 a.m. on the dot, and she always drinks a decaf of the same at 3, preferably with a Millefoglie from Sant Ambroeus. She always takes calls from Anna, never from press. And woe to the assistant who shows her page layouts without proofing typos first.) I had access to the magazine’s infamous closet—Mecca, practically—and managed to squeeze in a little shopping of my own in between errands (Nelle at Barneys has all of my sizes and cosmetics colors on file).

  All that, and they’re incredibly flexible about scheduling. Meaning I’m free to spend extra-long weekends at Lodgehampton, and take off afternoons to help Mother prepare for our party.